You, Chuck, are, I believe, limited by the notion that we share a frame of reference. That what one of us does affects another. This is, of course, untrue.
When I move my hand in front of my face, in reality there is no hand. When someone shouts “Lock her up!” at a rally, it does not make a sound. The only thing keeping Merrick Garland off the Supreme Court is his belief that he is not on the Supreme Court.
Don’t you see? You are trapped in a prison created by your own mind, is what I would like to tell the children at the border, who, again, do not exist, and are only stimuli generated by a bored demon tormenting my mind in a jar.
All I know is the line between law and crime, between truth and untruth, between reality and fantasy — there is no line. They are infinitely fungible. Everything is real, or, perhaps, more simply, nothing is real. This is a belief system that the president and I share, although he is of course not real, merely a cruel joke concocted by my mind, like a dream metaphor that feels too on-the-nose. (I often have dreams that are too pointed; flying, falling, mainly falling. I have not troubled myself to understand them.)
You can give me money for information, Chuck. You can give me information in exchange for the promise of influence. You can meet me in a place — let us call it Trump Tower. I will laugh, because, of course none of these things actually exist.
There was no meeting, no influence, no money, no information, because, fundamentally, none of these concepts are anchored in anything that can be called a shared reality. People may think they had a meeting. Porn stars may think they accepted hush money. But really — nothing happened, because no one is real but myself. I shut my eyes, and the world is snuffed out.
I am not here and (of course) you are not here with me. It is no insult to call the news fake: Everything is fake.
The point is, it is good that I work for the Trump administration.
Why should we not lock Hillary Clinton up? Why should we not pack the courts with judges? Why should we not build the wall?
I snap my fingers — the wall exists already! It is beautiful and tall. I close my eyes; my hands become enormous, large enough to engulf entire cities. I merely wish, and I am an expert upon any subject. The instant I cease to recollect the existence of Puerto Rico, it ceases to be a problem. I am the measure of all things. When I say that there are good people on all sides, it becomes so. Global warming is, of course, not real, because, again, nothing exists.
Why should we not do whatever we wish, truly? This is not reality. This is a playground for our minds.
History is a series of agreed-upon lies. It has no objective existence; we like to imagine we will be seen and judged, but we are neither seen nor judged. The only lesson I took from “Hamilton” (a musical my mind invented for my own amusement) is that if two people walk into a room and no one else is in the room when it happened, literally it is impossible to say what occurred in that meeting. And that assumes you live in a universe where a meeting is possible, which, again, I am not certain I accept.
Maybe there is no one in the White House. Maybe there are no insides to other people, and you can act on them however you wish. Certainly that must be true of women.
Maybe there is no morality or law. Does the Constitution exist? Is not the existence of any kind of law or truth not the greatest lie of all?
Our actions have no consequences, and we move aimlessly in a void. How do I sleep at night? How do you know I am not sleeping now?